


Filling; Fuller

by YellowMustard



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Illness, Recovery Is Not A Straight Line, Tree Bros, college bros, evan just being the absolute sweetest, sick fic kind of?, some mention of eating disorders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22128865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowMustard/pseuds/YellowMustard
Summary: It's not like it's intentional, or anything.Connor wants to eat. He does.(Or: The closest thing to a Sick Fic I've ever written~)
Relationships: Evan Hansen/Connor Murphy
Comments: 37
Kudos: 213





	Filling; Fuller

**Author's Note:**

> AHOY MATEYS!
> 
> Writer-brain has been Out Of Service lately but I managed to churn this out! Save Me From Myself is also on its way, but I'm going on vacation in a couple days so I'll definitely be absent for a little while. Thank you for your patience, support, and general amazingness <3 <3 
> 
> TW: Some very minor references to a PAST ED - no actual eating disorders in the present-day of this story, and no ED mentioned specifically by name. Connor does spend a great deal of this story struggling to eat due to medication-related nausea, so if you think that would bother you, proceed carefully. 
> 
> Tumblr: @theyellowestmustard
> 
> xx

* * *

28 hours. 

Actually, no. Closer to 29, now.

It's been 29 hours. 

And 29 hours ago it was only half a piece of toast with nothing on it. Which probably doesn't even count. Which means it's probably been even  _ longer _ .

The number of hours doesn't make much difference, anyway. The point is that it's been too long. He  _ knows  _ it's been too long.

It's not like it's intentional, or anything. And it's not like it's a weight thing, or a self-image thing. He's dealt with that shit before, and he knows this is  _ not  _ the same.

Connor  _ wants  _ to eat. He does.

But at the mere thought of food, Connor's stomach churns threateningly, sending this horrible rolling feeling of nausea through him, and he breaks out in this sickly cold sweat, and saliva pools disconcertingly in the back of his throat, and he thinks  _ okay, here we go. _

_ Give it time _ , his therapist had told him.  _ Switching your antidepressants up may cause some side effects for a little while. It's like starting all over again. But once your body adjusts, I really do think it'll be worth it.  _

Right now, Connor highly doubts that.

He goes back to crunching on ice cubes, the one thing he can actually stand to put anywhere near his mouth at the moment, Evan excluded. 

And he returns his attention to his tablet and tries to draw.

His stomach groans with hunger, then immediately sinks in revulsion. Like it's arguing with itself. 

Connor gnashes another ice cube between his molars in frustration.

He hadn't even  _ heard  _ the word until a month ago. He didn't even know it was a  _ thing. _ Tachyphylaxis: the so-called "poop-out" effect; when your antidepressants just...stop working. Like job done, see you later, no more serotonin for you. It's  _ bullshit.  _ Four whole years since his attempt in high school, four  _ entire years _ of being okay,  _ better _ than okay most days, and then practically overnight his pills just go 'actually, I think we're done here.'

It's completely and utterly infuriating.

And unfair.  _ God _ , it just feels unfair.

Not only to himself, but to Evan.

Evan, who  _ should  _ be focusing on his junior year of college, who  _ should  _ be just...enjoying his life, now that he’s working part time and seeing a therapist he actually likes, and they’re living together in their own (albeit rented) apartment across from campus. Evan should be happy and content and, like... _ settled. _

Evan shouldn’t be awake at four in the morning, rubbing Connor’s back as he shudders and cries and tells Evan that he doesn’t know why but he wants to die again, he wants to  _ die, _ and he’s  _ scared, _ he’s scared he’s  _ going to do it _ , he’s going to  _ hurt  _ himself  _ Evan help me help me help me-- _

Evan shouldn’t have to deal with that. With the vacant, lifeless stares and the panic attacks and the anger and the days where Connor can’t even find the strength to get out of bed. Evan shouldn’t have to deal with the absolute  _ disaster  _ that he is.

But he does.

Because Evan loves him.

That’s just...mind-boggling, honestly. 

It’s love that feels undeserved, most of the time. Like Connor’s gotten it under false pretenses, or something. Like...he hasn’t done enough to have earned it, like it’s dishonest of him for keeping it when it doesn’t belong to him, when it  _ shouldn’t  _ belong to him.

Evan seems to think it belongs to him.

Evan seems to think it won’t ever belong to anyone else.

Connor rolls his neck, trying to loosen the tension in his muscles. He stands to stretch out his back, and an abrupt wave of dizziness barrels him back down to his seat. He grasps the armrests of his desk chair, white-knuckled, taking shallow little breaths and staring blankly at his knees and he fights to stay conscious. 

That’ll happen after 29 hours without food, Connor supposes. 

It takes a while for the vertigo to pass. His stomach rumbles away the entire time, flip-flopping wildly between aching with hunger and quivering with nausea until Connor doesn't know whether he's coming or going and  _ fuck _ this fucking  _ sucks.  _

Connor thought most people struggled with weight  _ gain _ on antidepressants. At the rate he’s going, it’s going to be the other way around. And Connor doesn’t exactly have much weight to  _ lose.  _ And on top of that it just, like. Brings back weird, shitty memories of when this once  _ was  _ intentional. And makes him second guess himself, because...he’s not relapsing, right? This whole not-eating thing is just a side effect of the new meds, isn’t it? Connor’s sure it is. He’s  _ sure _ . Because his weight, the way his body looks, it hadn’t even crossed his mind until  _ after  _ the nausea had well and truly kicked in, after he’d made the switch with his pills, and it’s just. It’s not the same thing. It’s _not_. 

But his brain finds it hard to tell the difference.

And paranoia is one thing Connor has in droves.

Just.

This shit had better be fucking worth it, is all. 

This shit had better make him fucking  _ functional  _ again.

Fuck.

He picks up his stylus and twirls it between his thumb and forefinger. His nails are chipped. He needs to repaint them. 

No sense at the moment. His hands are shaking too badly.

He takes a deep breath. Lets it out.

Looks at his tablet.

No point. 

He can’t create right now, because he can’t focus, because he can’t eat, because he can’t produce fucking dopamine on his own like every other goddamn normal human being on earth.

His skin prickles uncomfortably as another queasy rush of... _ something, _ slithers through him. He’s done trying to tell if it’s sickness or starvation or listlessness or self-loathing. They’re all starting to feel the same, anyway.

His pulse ticks, hard, just below his jaw, and he grits his teeth against the feeling.

Nudges his trashcan closer with his foot. Just in case.

There’s nothing in his stomach to vomit up, but still. 

And then there’s a hand at the back of his head; fingers sinking into his hair and pressing against his skull, and he closes his eyes and leans his head back into the comfort of Evan’s touch before he’s even turned to look at him. He vaguely hears him set down whatever he’s holding on the desk beside him so he can give Connor his full attention, and Connor is so so glad.

“Doing okay?” Evan asks softly, and Connor blearily mumbles something negative in response. Something along the lines of  _ ‘mlerughhh, noooo’. _

“Oh, Con,” he murmurs, with such tenderness, such warm empathy, that it kind of reminds Connor of his mom, for a second. 

“Nearly passed out a minute ago,” he confesses, because he’s never been any good at hiding stuff from Evan. “Like. Honestly thought I was gonna just black the fuck out.”

“ _Connor,”_ Evan says, sounding concerned. “Connor, you should have yelled out for me.”

“Was over too quick,” he explains. “I’m alright.”

He still hasn't turned to look at Evan, but he can feel his eyes on him, boring into the back of his head, knowing full well that he is Not Alright.

"Do you...do you think you could handle eating something? You need to eat something."

Connor shrugs weakly. 

“I dunno,” he says dully. “I haven’t actually puked anything up, so. Probably could. Just. I feel so  _ shit.” _

Evan is quiet for a moment. The fingers in his hair keep stroking, scratching lightly at his scalp.

"I, um. Would it help if it was something you really liked?"

Connor considers it.

"I dunno," he says again, blinking his eyes open slowly, feeling kind of groggy. "Maybe?"

He spins slowly in his desk chair to face Evan.

But he catches sight of the plate first. 

The one he'd heard Evan set on his desk when he'd first come in.

"There's no pressure to eat anything if you don't think you can manage it," Evan assures him gently. "I just thought, maybe…"

The plate itself looks like a hyperactive child was left unattended at the world's weirdest all-you-can-eat restaurant. 

There's a fistful of bagel chips, a few fresh strawberries, several wrapped pieces of cherry flavored Laffy Taffy, a chunk of brie, a McDonald's hash brown, and a whole pickle. Balanced on the side is a tablespoon heaped with peanut butter, just peanut butter on its own, to be eaten right off the spoon.

Connor isn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

They're Connor Comfort Foods.

All the stuff Connor turns to when he's having a bad day. 

And Evan knows. Evan knows all of it, because he  _ cares  _ enough to know.

And Connor’s  _ sure  _ they didn’t have most of this stuff at home. Like, they  _ definitely  _ didn’t have a McDonald’s hash brown just lying around, he can say that for certain. Which means that Evan has  _ intentionally  _ gone out and grabbed all this stuff, just for Connor. 

Just to try and get Connor to eat, because he  _ knows  _ that Connor isn’t okay right now, and he wants to help.

The tears win out over the laughter.

It happens so suddenly, so out-of-nowhere that it kind of takes the both of them by surprise. It starts with this rasping, dry sob that scrapes its way past Connor’s throat, then another one, and he drops his face into his hands as his eyes begin to well up. Evan’s there instantly, wrapping an arm tightly around his shoulders and helping him to stand, guiding him slowly to sit on the bed, then sitting beside him so he’s better able to hold him. 

And this. This is a Connor Comfort Food, too. In a way.

Because Evan is rubbing his back, his shoulders, his arms, and sometimes sliding a hand into Connor’s hair to cradle his head. He holds him tightly, rocking him back and forth and kissing his hair as Connor sobs pathetically into Evan’s neck, probably getting snot all over him.

The best part, is that Evan never says “shh”. 

Connor knows it’s not malicious, when people do that. It’s almost automatic, to shush a crying person, as a way of soothing; of comforting them. Like with babies.

But Connor honestly appreciates that Evan doesn’t do it. He’s never done that. He doesn’t try to quiet Connor down; he just lets him cry it all out, volatile and ugly and awful. 

Evan doesn’t try to silence him when he’s feeling something loud. 

And  _ god _ Connor’s brain has been fucking  _ blaring _ lately. And Evan’s stood by him, been there for him like it’s  _ nothing… _

“I’m sorry,” Connor chokes out into Evan’s neck, voice garbled with tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _I’m_ _sorry--_ ”

Evan’s hands form tight fists in the material of Connor’s t-shirt, pulling him impossibly closer.

“Unacceptable,” he murmurs. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

And Connor wants to protest. Because he  _ has. _

He’s broken Evan’s routines, routines that Evan  _ needs  _ to keep himself stable, to keep himself healthy and safe. Connor’s broken them, because his stupid fucking brain has thrown him off-course and made him angry and isolated and suicidal and that is  _ not  _ Evan’s problem to deal with and he’s dealt with it anyway, and now he’s having to deal with the fact that Connor’s been a sad sack for an entire day because he’s hungry and he can’t fucking eat.

And Evan’s so fucking  _ wonderful,  _ so fucking kind and loving and  _ good,  _ that he hasn’t even batted an eyelid at any of this even though he  _ should _ , he should  _ leave  _ Connor, and instead he’s bringing him fucking peanut butter on a fucking spoon.

He’s...

Connor has clinical depression. 

And Evan is bringing him peanut butter on a spoon.

And Connor is bawling about it.

Which is just. The stupidest fucking thing...

And Connor’s sobs are shifting; morphing into something else; something still wet and tremulous, but lighter; warbling.

He's laughing.  


His face is still stained with tears; his eyes irritated and scratchy from the salt of it, but the ridiculousness of the situation has caught up with him and he’s giggling like a complete fucking lunatic, and when the thought crosses his mind how insane the sudden mood shift must seem to Evan, he only finds himself fighting off the mindless laughter even more.

Evan peels himself back a little to look at him with bemused concern, brushing his hair out of the way with both hands.

“Sorry, fuck,” Connor manages in a weak chuckle, or a sob, or something. He doesn’t even know. “I'm just. I feel like a fucking toddler. Like. I'm tired, I'm sad, I wanna snack, I don’t wanna snack, I wanna nap but if you tell me I need one I’ll lie on the ground and scream for hours…”

Evan laughs at that, and the sound warms away a chill in Connor’s bones that he hadn’t even noticed was there.

“I don’t think either of us would enjoy that,” Evan says teasingly. 

He pulls Connor back against his chest, pushing down gently on his neck to encourage him to ease his head down to Evan’s shoulder. And Connor does, rubbing his face against the familiar fabric of Evan’s hoodie, which he’s pretty sure is actually  _ Connor’s  _ hoodie, because Evan is a thieving lawless criminal and Connor wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I mean,” Evan pipes up after a moment, a little halting and a  _ lot  _ mischievous. “Like, I guess I  _ have _ enjoyed hearing you scream before. In, uh. Certain contexts. But...but  _ hours  _ of screaming does seem...excessive, you know?”

Connor’s entire face heats like someone’s set him on fire, and he lets out a loud guffaw against Evan’s shoulder that makes him jump, and then they’re both giggling together, twisted into the tightest, safest little knot on the bed they both share, so warm and secure that for a moment Connor almost forgets how hungry he is.

Almost.

It takes a while; takes for their laughter to die down, for their breathing to become steady, for Evan to shift and relax his arms and start stroking Connor’s back.

“The hash brown smells good,” Connor admits, hating how small his voice sounds.

But it’s true. 

Have hash browns always smelled that fucking good?

“Yeah?” asks Evan, but he doesn’t pull away, not yet.

“Yeah.”

“You wanna try a bit?”

Connor takes a moment to deliberate. To consider the concept of the humble hash brown.

“Will you hold my hair if I puke?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

“Absolutely,” says Evan, finally pulling away. “I’ll, like. Hold whatever you want me to hold.”

Connor waggles his eyebrows suggestively at him, because Evan practically set him up for that one, and Evan scoffs and rolls his eyes and pokes him in the ribs with his index finger.

Connor breaks off a small chunk of the hash brown and eats it with extreme caution, taking the tiniest little bites and pausing after each one to make an assessment of how his stomach is coping with the sudden violation. The swimming, churning sensation remains, but it doesn’t seem to get any worse, so Connor soldiers on, continuing to nibble away at the hash brown until it’s almost gone.

And when it  _ is  _ almost gone, Connor’s stomach full-on  _ growls.  _ Loudly. 

There’s something distinctly Godzilla-ish about it. Or like, a dying whale getting sucked into a lawnmower.

Evan raises an eyebrow.

“Wow, okay,” he tells Connor’s stomach. “Relax.”

Connor laughs out loud, his nausea briefly forgotten.

“Never thought I’d see the day  _ you’d  _ be telling anyone, or like...any _ thing,  _ to relax.”

“Never thought  _ I’d  _ see the day somebody’s stomach would be the frontman for a death metal band.”

“Wait ‘till you hear its debut album. Gonna be huge.”

“Oh yeah? What’s it called?”

Connor takes another bite of McDonald’s hash brown as he thinks about it.

“McDepression. Shut up, don’t  _ laugh _ , it’s a good name.”

Connor does end up eating the entire hash brown, and most of the bagel chips. He decides to skip out on the Laffy Taffy and the brie, not wanting to test his tummy by overloading on sugar or dairy, but he goes for the peanut butter, which he licks tentatively off the spoon bit by bit.

Evan gives him A Very Distinct Look.

Connor is  _ extremely  _ tempted to shove the whole spoon halfway down his throat, but he’s  _ definitely _ sure that would make him  _ actually  _ throw up, which is decidedly Not Sexy and not something that either one of them would wanna to deal with.

Evan continues to tease and joke and laugh and eye-roll, and Connor eats, completely distracted by Evan’s exasperation, Evan’s doting smile and bright eyes and endless patience.

And like. He still feels pretty gross. 

But somehow he manages to finish half the plate.

“Might stop,” he says eventually. “Don’t wanna push my luck.”

“I’m surprised you managed as much as you did,” Evan concedes, taking the plate from him and setting it aside. “How do you feel?”

“Wonky,” Connor admits. “Confused. Like my brain can’t tell the difference between feeling sick and feeling sad.”

“I get that,” Evan says, with quiet empathy. “But, I guess...maybe there’s a little overlap, right now?”

“Yeah. That’s...yeah, definitely.”

Connor stretches his legs out straight in front of him and reclines back against the pillows, and Evan resituates himself so he’s leaning his back against the wall, with Connor’s legs thrown across his lap. He runs his thumb over the tear in the knee of Connor’s jeans, a lulling back-forth motion that honestly seems to slow Connor’s heartbeat, to untangle whatever it is that’s twisted inside of him.

_ Fuck _ , Evan’s just... _ so  _ understanding. It’s almost hard for Connor to comprehend; hard for him to wrap his head around it; the fact that he feels  _ understood _ . Understood and cared for and cherished. 

Like Connor matters. 

“Also, like...what’s the opposite of hollow?”

Evan’s lips scrunch together as he thinks about this.

“Full? Or...filled?”

“No...no, not quite. Just...not hollow. Not empty.”

It’s quiet as Evan’s brain flips through his mental thesaurus, hard at work.

“Not sure there’s a word for that. Un-hollow, maybe, but I don’t think that’s a real word.”

“Un-hollow,” Connor repeats softly. “That. I feel...un-hollow.”

“Like...like, food-wise, or--?”

“Everything-wise,” says Connor. “Like I’m not quite...there yet, but I’m also not...like, there’s  _ something _ . Something starting to fill me back up again.”

Evan smiles this soft half smile.

“Un-hollow,” he murmurs again, and it sounds exactly like another little grain of sand; falling, filling the empty space in the cavity of Connor’s chest, his stomach; just a little less empty, barely noticeable yet but adding up, building, growing. 

“Let me read you the Laffy Taffy jokes,” Evan says. “Even if you don’t want to eat them. Bet it’ll help fill in the hollow space even more."

It does. But Connor's certain that's less to do with the jokes, and more to do with the person reading them; to do with soft eyes and freckled cheeks and a thumb rubbing his knee.

Not quite full, but not quite empty. Filling, fuller.

Getting there.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
